Second Sight by Amanda Quick
In other words, Clare was a human lie detector.
“Hello, Myra,” Clare said. “I can see from your expression that you weren’t expecting me. I was afraid of that. All I can say is that I’ve had a bad feeling about this right from the start. Sorry for the intrusion.”
She didn’t sound sorry, Jake thought. She sounded like a woman who expected to have to defend herself; a woman who had done just that frequently in the past and who was fully prepared to do so again. A scrappy little street fighter in conservative pumps and a badly wrinkled business suit. He was a little surprised that she didn’t have “Don’t Tread on Me” tattooed across her forehead.
“Did Elizabeth ask you to come here tonight?” Myra demanded.
“No. I got an e-mail from Archer. He said it was important.”
Now, that was interesting, Jake thought. Archer had said nothing at all about his other daughter, let alone bothered to warn him that she might show up unexpectedly.
Clare turned her head quite suddenly and looked straight into the pool of shadow where he stood. A small shock electrified his senses. Something had alerted her to his presence. He hadn’t intended for that to happen. He knew how to blend into the background. He had a predator’s talent for concealment when he chose to use it, and he had been using it instinctively for the past couple minutes.
Aside from the rare handful of other sensitives who possessed exotic psychic abilities similar to his own—other hunters—there were very few people who could have detected his presence in the shadows. Clare’s intuitive awareness was especially impressive given the amount of highly charged emotional electricity that was vibrating in the air between her and Myra. If nothing else, the tension alone should have distracted her.
Yes, indeed, here comes trouble. Can’t wait.
“I was not aware that we had gotten a call from the guards at the front gate,” Myra said stiffly.
Clare turned back to her. “Don’t worry, there was no major breach of security. The guard called the house before he waved me through the gates. Someone on this end vouched for me.”
“I see.” Myra sounded uncharacteristically nonplussed. “I don’t understand why Archer didn’t tell me that he invited you.”
“You’ll have to take that up with him,” Clare said. “Look, it wasn’t my idea to come all this way for a cocktail party. I’m here because Archer said that it was very important. That’s all I know.”
“I’ll go and find him,” Myra said. She turned and walked quickly across the veranda, disappearing through the open French doors.
Clare made no move to follow. Instead she switched her attention back to Jake.
“Have we met?” she asked with a chilly politeness that made it very clear she knew they had not.
“No,” Jake said. He moved slowly out of the shadows. “But I have a feeling that we’re going to get to know each other very well. I’m Jake Salter.”
2
HE’S LYING, Clare thought. Sort of.
She should have been prepared. She was always prepared for a lie. But this wasn’t a pure, full-on lie. It was a subtle, nuanced bit of misdirection wrapped in truth, the kind of lie that a magician might use: Now you see the coin, now you don’t. But there really is a coin. It’s just that I can make it disappear.
He was Jake Salter but he wasn’t.
Whatever he was, he was definitely a powerful talent. The strong but confusing pulses of energy that accompanied the half-truth jangled her senses. She had developed her own private coding system for lies. The spectrum ran from the hot ultraviolet energy that accompanied the most dangerous lies, to a pale, cool, paranormal shade of silvery white for the benign sort.
But Jake Salter’s lie generated energy from across the spectrum. Hot and cold. She knew intuitively that Jake could be extremely dangerous, but he wasn’t—at least not at the moment.
Adrenaline flooded through her, making her edgy and hyper-alert. Her paranormal senses flared wildly, disorienting her on both the physical and the psychic planes. Her pulse kicked up suddenly and her breathing got very tight.
She was accustomed to the sensation. She had been living with her rare brand of sensitivity since it developed in her early teens. Heaven knew she had practiced long and hard to learn how to clamp down on her physical as well as her paranormal reactions. But unfortunately her unusual senses were hardwired to the primitive fight-or-flight response. The Arcane House parapsychologist who had helped her deal with her unique type of energy had explained to her that psychic talents that triggered such basic physical instincts were exceptionally hard to control.
When she did her own search through the genealogical records of the Arcane Society, looking for examples of others like herself, she had stumbled across two disturbing facts. The first was that, although human lie detectors popped up occasionally among the membership, the majority were fives or lower. Powerful level tens were extremely rare.
Disturbing Fact Number Two was that of the handful of level-ten lie detectors in the historical records, the majority had come to bad ends because they never learned to control their talent. They wound up in asylums or took to drugs to dull the effects of the steady barrage of lies that assailed them day after day, year in and year out. Some committed suicide.
The truth was, everybody lied. If you were a level-ten human lie detector, you either got used to it or you went crazy.
If there was one thing she had taught herself, Clare thought, it was control.
She pulled her senses—all of them—together with an effort of will and adjusted her psychic defenses.
“I’m Clare Lancaster,” she said. She was proud of the fact that the words came out evenly and politely, as if she wasn’t on the downside of a mini–panic attack.
“Nice to meet you, Clare,” Jake said.
Okay, he wasn’t lying now. He really was pleased to meet her. More than pleased, in fact. She did not need her psychic sensitivity to detect the masculine anticipation in the words. Old-fashioned feminine intuition worked just fine. Another little thrill quivered through her.
He walked, no, he prowled, toward her, a half-filled glass in one hand. She got the impression that he was factoring her presence into some private calculation. Fair enough. She was doing the same thing in reverse.
“Are you a friend of the family, Mr. Salter?” she asked.
“Call me Jake. I’m a business consultant. Archer hired me to consult on a new pension and benefit plan for Glazebrook.”
Another lie wrapped in truth. Wow. This man was scary good. And scary interesting.
He had moved into the light cast by one of the wrought-iron veranda lamps, allowing her a good look at him for the first time. She had the feeling that had not been by accident. He wanted her to see him. She understood why. Even his choice of clothing was an act of misdirection.
She wondered if he actually believed that the black-framed glasses, hand-tailored button-down shirt and business-casual trousers that he wore were an effective disguise. The conservative cut of his very dark hair didn’t work, either.
Nothing could conceal the watchful intelligence in those dark eyes or hide the subtle aura of controlled power that emanated from him. He was all fierce edges and mysterious shadows. She would have bet the tiny amount of money left in her bank account that, like any proper iceberg, the really dangerous part of Jake Salter was hidden beneath the surface.
You didn’t have to be psychic to figure out that this was not a guy you wanted to encounter in a dark alley late at night. Not unless he was promising some very kinky sex.
The last realization made her catch her breath. Where had that come from? She was definitely not inclined toward kinky sex. Actually, she wasn’t really into sex of any kind. Sex meant letting go, becoming vulnerable and taking risks with someone you trusted. When you were a human lie detector, you had a lot of trust issues. When she did go to bed with a man, she made certain she was in control.
One of the great things about Greg Washburn was t
“You’re a little late,” Jake observed.
“My flight out of San Francisco was delayed,” she said.
“Clare.”
Clare jerked her attention away from Jake Salter and smiled at her half sister. “Hi, Liz.”
“I just saw Mom.” Elizabeth swept forward, her attractive face glowing with delight. “She told me you were here. I didn’t know you were coming down to Arizona tonight.” She threw her arms around Clare. “For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Sorry,” Clare said, hugging her. “I assumed you were aware I had been invited.”
“Dad probably wanted to surprise me. You know how he is.”
Not really, Clare thought, but she didn’t say it out loud. She had met the man who was her biological father for the first time a few months before. The circumstances had not been ideal. The truth was, she knew very little about Archer Glazebrook, aside from the fact that he was a legend in Arizona business circles.
“It’s so good to see you,” Elizabeth said.
Clare allowed herself to relax a little. With her sister, at least, she was on safe ground.
“You look terrific,” she said, glancing down at Elizabeth’s elegant white sheath. “Love the dress.”
“Thanks.” Elizabeth returned the survey. “You look—”
“Don’t say it. You know I’ll know you’re lying.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You look as if you’ve been traveling for half a day.”
“Now that’s the honest truth,” Clare said.
She smiled. It was so good to see her sister happy and cheerful. Eight months ago Elizabeth had been a woman in the middle of a nervous breakdown. The change was little short of miraculous. No doubt about it, widowhood had been good for her.
Elizabeth, like her mother, was a registered member of the Arcane Society. Myra was a level two on the Jones Scale, which meant that, generally speaking, she had slightly above-average intuition. If she had not descended from a long line of Arcane Society members and been tested, she would have gone through life oblivious to the psychic side of her nature, taking her flashes of insight for granted, the way so many people did.
Elizabeth, however, was a five, with a strong sensitivity to color, visual balance, proportion and harmony. Her psychic abilities were one of the reasons she was so successful as an interior designer.
“There you are, Clare,” Archer Glazebrook roared from the open doorway. “What the hell took you so long?”
“My flight got delayed,” Clare said.
She kept her voice perfectly neutral, the way she always did when she was around the larger-than-life Archer Glazebrook. Since their initial meeting, she had spent very little time with him. She was not yet sure what to make of him.
Archer could have been cast as the aging, hard-bitten gunslinger in an old-fashioned western film. He was sixty-one, with craggy, sun-weathered features and shrewd hazel eyes. Appearances were anything but deceiving in Archer’s case. He was born and raised on an Arizona ranch located close to the border and had spent most of his life in the Southwest.
Archer no longer rode the land. He bought and sold it, instead. And he developed it. He did all of that so successfully that he could buy and sell just about anyone in the state.
Eventually he would turn over his empire to his son, Matt, to run. But for now he was still in charge. Clare knew that this summer Matt, who was in his late twenties, was managing a Glazebrook job site in San Diego.
Clare had once asked her mother what she had seen in Archer Glazebrook that made her want to have a one-night stand with him. Power is an incredible aphrodisiac, Gwen Lancaster had said simply.
There was no doubt that Archer wielded power, not only through his business empire but also on the paranormal plane. In fact, one was linked to the other. He descended from a long line of Arcane Society members. His particular psychic ability allowed him to map strategies in unique ways. Many sensitives with similar talents wound up in the military or in politics. Archer had applied his psi-senses to the world of high-stakes deal making. The results had been spectacular.
At the sight of him tonight, flanked by two members of his legitimate family, Clare felt the old, familiar wistfulness well up inside her. She suppressed it with the same ruthless will that she used to control the psychic side of her nature. Just as she had since she first discovered that she had a father and that he did not know that she existed, she chanted her private mantra. Get over it. You’re not the only person in the world who was raised by a single parent. Worse things could happen to a kid and Lord knows they do, all the time.
She’d been lucky. She had a loving mother and a doting great-aunt. That was a heck of a lot more than many people got.
“Well, come on inside and get yourself something to eat,” Archer ordered. He started to turn back toward the doors, intent on resuming his duties as host.
“I can’t stay long,” Clare said quickly.
Archer stopped and looked at her. So did everyone else, including Jake Salter. Okay, so it had been an odd thing to say, given that she had just flown all the way from San Francisco.
Elizabeth frowned in dismay. “You’re not planning on going back to San Francisco tonight, for heaven’s sake? You just got here.”
“No, I’m not going back tonight. I plan to catch a flight home day after tomorrow.”
“Forget it,” Archer growled. “We’ve got business to talk about. You’ll need to stick around longer than that.”
“I have things to do back home,” Clare began, speaking through clenched teeth.
Jake was suddenly beside her, taking her elbow, drawing her toward the French doors.
“You could probably use a little food after that flight and the long drive from the airport,” he said.
It was a command, not a suggestion. Her first inclination, as always in such circumstances, was to dig in her heels. That intention got even stronger when she realized that everyone, including Archer, was clearly relieved to see Jake taking charge of her.
Jake must have felt her incipient resistance. He gave her a slightly amused smile and raised his brows, silently asking her if she really wanted to cause a scene over a trivial matter like hitting the hors d’oeuvre table.
What the heck. She hadn’t eaten anything since the small carton of yogurt she’d had for lunch.
“All right,” she said.
“Where are you spending the night?” Elizabeth asked.
“At one of the chain hotels near the airport,” Clare replied.
Elizabeth was appalled.
“It’s an hour’s drive back to the airport,” she said.
“I know,” Clare said.
“You’ll stay here,” Archer declared decisively. “Plenty of room.”
Myra’s mouth opened and then closed abruptly on the objection. Clare felt sorry for her. Having your husband’s long-lost daughter, the product of his one-night stand with another woman, show up on your doorstep thirty-two years later had to be in the top ten of every wife’s worst nightmares.
“Thanks, but I prefer the hotel. I’ve already checked in and left my suitcase in the room.”
“If only I hadn’t just moved out of my apartment,” Elizabeth said, “you could have stayed with me. But like I told you on the phone last week, I’m here with Mom and Dad until the deal closes on my new condo.”
“It’s okay,” Clare said. “I don’t mind the hotel. Honest.”
Archer’s jaw flexed ominously but Jake had Clare almost to the doors.
“She has plenty of time to decide what she wants to do,” he said, drawing her through the opening. “Let me get some food into her first.”
Every head in the crowded room turned wh
Clare had been prepared for the uncomfortable reaction but it nevertheless hit her like a psychic shock wave. She had to remind herself to breathe. She felt Jake’s hand tighten on her arm but he said nothing.
He steered her toward a leather padded bar at one end of the long, spacious room, evidently unfazed by the covert glances and curious stares.
“Let’s start with the drink first,” he said. “If you’ve been in the Valley of the Sun for more than five minutes at this time of year, you need water.”
“I am a little thirsty,” she admitted.
He brought her to a halt at the bar and looked at the attendant. “Sparkling water and a glass of Chardonnay for Miss Lancaster, please.”
“Never mind the wine. I won’t be staying long and I’ve got the drive back to the airport.”
Jake shrugged agreeably. “Just the water, in that case.”
The man on the other side of the bar nodded, deftly filled a glass with bubbly water and handed it to Clare.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Now we do a surgical strike on the buffet,” Jake said.
He guided her to a rustic, wooden plank table that looked as if it dated from the early 1800s when Mexico controlled a large chunk of what was now Arizona. She knew the table was probably a genuine antique. Myra had excellent taste and could afford the best.
The buffet was decorated with colorful, hand-painted pottery dishes that incorporated a variety of Southwestern motifs. A large, tiered ice sculpture with hollowed-out bowls held an assortment of cold hors d’oeuvres. At the other end of the long table stood a line of silver chafing dishes. Steam wafted up from the contents of the trays.
It dawned on Clare that she was hungry.
“You were right,” she said to Jake. “I do need something to eat.”
“I recommend those miniature blue-corn tortilla things.” He handed her a pepper-red plate. “The filling may be a little too hot for someone from San Francisco, though.”